An Open Letter to My Son on His 7th Birthday

Oliver Douglas—

On the way to school this morning, when it was just you and me, I told you about how when you were a baby you always had something clenched in your chubby little fists. When your Glamma and I took you to Maui when you were just about a year old, you carried a bar of hotel soap with you everywhere in its crinkly plastic packaging. You took it to the aquarium, you took it into the pool, and you slept with it in your pack-n-play. It was a comfort item for you, I’m sure, but I’ve never really invested brain power in considering why. I just accepted that you did it and that it wasn’t mine to really question or manage—unless and until your fists got stinky from being clenched.

You didn’t remember or believe that story, though, so we called your Glamma to confirm. I could tell you felt special and we reminisced on my memory about you you didn’t have.

I love your quirks. We all have them, but yours are cuter and smarter and usually have more basis in genuine thoughtfulness than the rest of the world’s do. I don’t really think they’re quirky at all. They’re just you.

And when you fly your little freak flag—your belly giggle, your breakfast-eating process, your smart little puns—I love you even more.

Because, young Oliver, you are not the average kid. You and I have a secret collection of sea glass (secrets with you are my favorite), you have the best handwriting I’ve seen for a kid your age, your teacher was so impressed with a story you wrote in class she wants you to publish it (our summer project), and you’re just…chill.

You’re stubborn as all hell, but you’re chill, too. I appreciate the chill part a lot.

I always knew life would be a little harder for you to navigate because you’re so different, so un-kid-like for being a kid, and that’s proving to be true. We’re talking through some of the social frustrations you have and I’m working hard to show up for you how you need me to. I don’t always get it right, but I work hard at it and think about how I can support you better constantly. We talk about how making friends requires being a friend, how to engage in thoughtful conversation, and how to end a fight if one starts.

And, you call me out when I need to hear it, which I don’t always appreciate but usually respect. You’re not a big talker and sometimes I want to fill silences, ask you a million questions that I’m sure start to feel like an interrogation.

I get to know you better every day.

As you wrote on my Mother’s Day card, “I will always love you.” I will always be there for you and I will always work to build us the best life possible.

Thank you for making me a momma, Oliver Douglas. It will always be my best and most favorite job.

Happy birthday,

Mom